Chapter Text
When Evan first closed his eyes, there was only smoke, people, and noise. When he opened them again, the buildings sank into the earth, their edges softening into roots and leaves until the trees pressed in close. To his left, he could almost see the sky tangling itself into the kind of blue that sparkles. Endless trees lined up to his right, swaying with the wind. He has a guess it was only an hour before he reached the coast, basing on how hard his heart thumps on his chest like it’s begging to get out.
He could already smell the ocean, and it was kind of funny how much it smelled the same. It made his chest ache in the way summer used to. Like it stayed, waiting for him to come back.
And to be honest, he did not even think about it.
Coming back.
What for?
Two years and four semesters later, well, here he is.
Four semesters of spilled coffee, unending lectures, and adrenaline worn into bone. Four semesters of dedicating his life into nothing but his father’s approving nod. Four semesters of learning how to win and how it could hollow you when you do out at the same time. Four semesters of his fragments flowing and drowning over the coursing river of validation.
The bus tilted toward the sun, and he leaned into it, letting the heat run down his cheek. Outside, the pines came in waves, their shadows flashing over his hands. Somewhere under the hum of the engine, the song playing on his earphones threads through the air, slashing his chest in an attempt to stab his heart to stop it from jumping out of the window. (Typically what happens when he puts Televangelism by Ethel Cain on loop, something he can’t help but do.)
He tried not to think about the last time he was here. About the car rides, the sharp scent of salt before the shoreline, the way someone’s manly laughter had curled warm against his ear. About all the almosts that summer had left behind.
He didn’t know what would be waiting this time. Only that he wanted the world to slow down. To let him breathe.
He just needs to feel less. And more. And nothing at all.
He tilted his head back toward the light and stared at it through the dark tint of his sunglasses.
If nothing else, he hoped the sun had missed him.
“You good?”
The silence abruptly vanishes as he turns his head a little, offering a lazy smile to Pandora, who is sitting beside him. “Yup. Why?”
“You looked sort of lost in there.” His sister comments, twirling a strand of her hair, a look of genuine confusion plastered on her face. “Are you worried?”
Evan shakes his head, looking at his sister dead in the eyes as he lies, “Are you?”
Pandora hums. “Kind of.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The conversation dies, but the both of them know what each other is talking about.
Are you worried? Are you scared?
What if everything has changed?
What if there is nothing to come back to?
He spots his old elementary school from where he is, empty. Beside it, the playground appears, the same, but more rusty. More houses began to appear, kids biking around, the quiet shifting into chatter as the bus proceeded. The ocean is clearly visible now, and the scent of salty air coats his tongue in lead.
The bus lurched to a stop, and Evan’s stomach dropped with it. Through the grimy window, he could see the familiar weathered sign: Welcome to Solana Bay! Population: 1,462, though he suspected that number hadn’t been updated since he was in middle school.
“This is us,” Pandora said softly, already reaching for her oversized tote bag. She’d packed light—just summer clothes and her sketchbook, the one filled with fashion designs their father would never understand. Evan had done the same, though his bag held a different kind of contraband: his camera, the one he’d bought with money from his part-time job at the university library. Hard-earned, untouched by his father’s reproaching gaze. The weight of it in his hands felt like both salvation and betrayal all the same.
The driver called out their stop, and Evan stood on unsteady legs. Two years of coffee jitters and sleepless nights had left him thinner, sharper around the edges. He wondered if anyone would notice.
Outside, the air hit him like a physical thing—salt and pine and something else, something that tasted like sixteen and reckless and the kind of stupid that felt like flying. He shouldered his bag and followed Pandora down the narrow aisle, past an elderly woman with grocery bags, past a kid with drumsticks, and a teenager with paint-stained fingers who reminded him uncomfortably of him at that age.
Their mother was waiting by the old blue Subaru, the same one she’d driven since their parents were still pretending to be happy. She looked smaller than he remembered, her dark hair shot through with silver that caught the afternoon light. When she saw them, her face crumpled into something between relief and… heartbreak, if it could be laced with joy.
“My twins,” she whispered, pulling them both close. She smelled like lavender soap and the faint cigarette smoke she thought no one noticed. “God, you’ve both gotten so thin! And tall. Growing up so fast without me, huh?”
Evan let himself be held, let himself forget for a moment about GPA requirements and his father’s weekly phone calls asking about his “real” plans for the future. Film school was a phase, according to their father. An expensive detour before Evan came to his senses and transferred to business or law or something that mattered in the real world.
“We’re fine, Mum,” Pandora said, though her voice was muffled against their mother’s shoulder. “Just tired.”
“Get on, then,” she said, and without any fuss, they both went inside the backseat. Just as they were settling, their mother spoke. “Wait, no one wants to sit beside me?”
Pandora looks at him for a second, before going out to sit in the passenger seat. Evan shakes his head. Their father never wanted any of them to sit on the front seat for reasons untold. Doesn’t even want them to own a car even after he adamantly forced them to take driving lessons ‘just in case.’
The drive to their house took twenty minutes through streets that looked like photographs from his childhood—the same corner store where he’d bought candy with quarters, the same park where he’d learned to ride a bike, the same empty basketball field he practiced skating on, the same stretch of beach road where he’d first understood that wanting could be a wound.
Their mother filled the silence with updates: Mrs. Meadowes from the grocery store had asked about them, the lighthouse was apparently getting renovated, the summer festival was happening in two weeks. Safe topics, surface-level things that didn’t require him to explain why he’d stopped calling, why he’d let two years stretch between them like an ocean.
“Barty’s been asking about you,” she said suddenly, her eyes finding him in the rearview mirror. “He works at the seaside now. Fixing boats, I think.”
Evan’s chest tightened, his eyes hardening as the view blurs. For all of his tries to forget, that name stayed in the back of his head, as if tattooed, permanent. Barty.
Two months. That’s all it had been, that last summer before he left. Two months of stolen moments and careful touches and conversations that felt like confessions. Two months of two lips hovering around each other like a prayer masked with guilt. Two months of pretending it was just friends being friends when it felt like drowning even though they’re only sitting on the shore. Two months that had ended with Evan on a bus and Barty standing in the driveway, hands shoved deep in his pockets, not saying goodbye.
“That’s nice,” Evan said, his voice carefully neutral, not opening a portal to questions he’d rather die than answer. Pandora shot him a look, the kind that said she remembered exactly how those two months had ended.
The house appeared around the curve, to Evan’s relief—white clapboard with blue shutters, the porch swing still hanging crooked from that storm three summers ago. It still looks like home. Home, except it wasn’t, not really. Not after the years he didn’t spend time inside, or anywhere near at all. Home was wherever their father decided it should be, and right now that was a sterile apartment near campus where Evan measured his worth in letter grades and their father’s rare, grudging approval.
Inside, nothing had changed. The house felt like a museum of his former self. The same family photos lined the hallway, frozen moments from before the divorce papers and the custody battles and the slow, inevitable fracturing of everything they’d thought was permanent. Evan’s room was exactly as he’d left it—movie posters on the walls, books stacked on every surface, the old film camera he’d gotten for his fifteenth birthday sitting on the dresser like a relic. All of it feels like an artifact from a past life he only remembers through a documentary he watched half-asleep.
“I kept it the same, didn’t really touch anything except when I’m dusting,” his mother said from the doorway. “In case you wanted to come back.”
Evan swallowed the lump forming in his throat and nodded, not trusting his voice. He sat on the edge of his bed and looked out the window toward the bay. Somewhere out there, boats bobbed in the harbor, and maybe one of them had Barty’s hands on it, fixing something that was broken.
“I’ll be in the kitchen. Still like that cheese and garlic thing?”
It would be nice eating real food again, a change from his routine of fast foods and coffee. Evan nods, “Please. Thank you.”
“Okay, I’ll be in the kitchen. I’ll be back.”
His mother smiled lightly, leaving him alone, and Evan took his time observing his childhood room. On the nightstand, a photo in a frame stares back at him, from three summers ago—him, Pandora, Dorcas, and Barty, at the lake, all sunburned and laughing. Evan remembered the exact moment it was taken, the weight of Barty’s arm around his shoulders, the way Barty had been looking at him like he was seeing something new.
He should throw it away. Clean slate, remember?
Instead, he traced the edge with his finger and tried to remember what it felt like to want something just because it made him happy.
“Evan,” Pandora said quietly, careful not to let their mother hear, settling beside him on the bed. She offers a small smile, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
She meant more than just Barty, he knew. She meant the whole summer, the weight of expectation and memory and all the ways they’d both learned to make themselves smaller to fit into their father’s vision of success.
“I know,” he said, though he wasn’t sure he believed it.
His phone buzzed once—a text from his father asking about their arrival, reminding him about the internship applications that were due at the end of summer. Real opportunities, their father had called them. Not like this film nonsense.
Evan turned the phone face down and looked out at the water again. Pandora leaves without a sound. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear music drifting from the direction of town—guitar and drums and something that sounded like freedom. Staring at the window, the summer stretched ahead of him, vast and uncertain as the ocean itself.
“Evan?” His mother appeared on his door, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
Evan blinks, unsure of how much time had passed. As he really looks at his mother, he notices at least two new lines of wrinkles on her forehead that weren’t there two years ago. She looked older, softer around the edges in a way that made his chest tighten.
“Are you going to sit there all day, or are you going to come hug your mother? Dora already did.”
The embrace felt like coming up for air. She smelled like lavender, hints of cigarette smoke, and the vanilla candles she burned when she was anxious, and for a moment he let himself be twenty and tired and scared instead of the perfect son he’d been performing for two years.
“You’re too thin,” she murmured against his hair. “And you need a haircut.”
“Pandora said the same thing about the hair.” Evan mumbles on his mother’s shoulder.
“Your sister has excellent taste.” She pulled back to study his face, her expression growing concerned. She touched the bottom of his eyes, biting her lip in worry. “When’s the last time you slept? Really slept?”
“I sleep.” The lie came easily. He’d gotten good at those.
She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push. That was the thing about his mother—she knew when to hold on and when to let go. His father had never learned the difference.
“I’ll leave you to it, then. Sleep if you want to. You need to. We’ll wake you when dinner is ready.”
He nodded as he watched her walk away. When she was out of sight, he dropped his body on his bed. He had intended to unpack, maybe call his father to confirm their safe arrival, perhaps even venture downstairs to help his mother with dinner. Instead, he found himself horizontal on his childhood bed, staring at the ceiling where glow-in-the-dark stars still clung in constellations he’d mapped out at twelve. The exhaustion hit him like a physical weight—not just the bus ride, but two years of holding himself together with caffeine and sheer determination.
The last thing he remembered was the sound of waves through his open window and his mother’s voice drifting up from the kitchen, humming something soft and familiar, Evan couldn’t pinpoint exactly, but it sounded like a song from her wedding day.
When consciousness crept back, it came with voices. Low murmurs that seemed to float in from very far away, then closer, then right there in his room. His brain struggled to process the sounds—familiar cadences mixing with something new, laughter that made his chest tighten with recognition.
“Should we wake him?”
“He looks dead.”
“Don’t say that, Dorcas.”
“What? He does. All pale and—”
“Shh.”
Evan’s eyes fluttered open to find four faces peering down at him like he was some kind of exhibit. For a moment, disorientation made everything soft around the edges. The afternoon light had shifted to something golden and slanted, casting long shadows across his room. He must have been asleep for hours.
“There he is,” Dorcas said with a grin that was equal parts affection and mischief. Her hair was longer than he remembered, braided in a way that made her cheekbones look sharper. “Welcome back to the land of the living, first Rosier.”
“Hey! Just because I came in second doesn’t make him superior in the hierarchy.” Pandora sat cross-legged on his desk chair, spinning slowly, rolling her eyes at Dorcas. She turns to Evan and says, “Mum made your favorite food. You slept through it.”
Evan pushed himself up on his elbows, his gaze automatically finding the third familiar face. His heart almost stopped at the sight. Barty lounged against his dresser, arms crossed, looking like he’d never left this room, like the past two years had been a strange dream. His hair was longer, sun-bleached at the edges, and there was a new scar above his left eyebrow. But his smile was the same—crooked and knowing and dangerous in ways that made Evan’s stomach flip.
“Took you long enough, Rosie,” Barty said, voice carefully casual.
Rosie.
It has been a while since he heard that. No one has gotten close enough to create a nickname for him, not like Barty did. With his walls, he’s as closed off as he could be, except the time when someone took a leap and found a way around, entering his life with ease.
“Hey,” The word came out rougher than intended. Evan cleared his throat and sat up fully, running a hand through his hair. “How long was I out?”
“Five hours,” Pandora supplied. “I checked on you twice. You were dead to the world.”
“Tell me you didn’t lick my eyes you mother—” Evan stopped mid-sentence as his eyes landed on the fourth person. A boy about his age, maybe a year younger, with sharp features and dark hair that fell across his forehead. He stood slightly apart from the others, hands shoved deep in his pockets, watching Evan with curious gray eyes.
“Oh,” the stranger said, straightening. “Hi, you’re awake. I’m Regulus. Uh, Black.” His voice carried a slight formality, like he was used to introducing himself to people who might not want to know him.
“Regulus Black,” Dorcas added helpfully. “Sirius’ little brother. He moved here the year you left.”
He moved here the year you left. The phrase rang in his ears a little loud for his liking. The name clicked, though. Sirius Black, James’ bandmate. The one who’d left home and never looked back, according to his mother, who got the information through Mrs. Evans, who got it from Euphemia Potter.
“Right,” Evan said, still processing. “Nice to meet you.”
Regulus nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Evan scrunches his nose. “All good things, I hope.”
“Mostly.” Regulus’ smile widened slightly, and Evan caught a glimpse of sharp humor that reminded him of his brother, until those gray eyes landed on his left and Evan realized who he’s trying to make laugh.
Oh.
Of course.
“Don’t mind him,” Barty said, pushing off from the dresser. “He’s shy.”
“I’m not shy,” Regulus protested, but there was something soft in his voice when he looked at Barty. Something that made Evan’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely.
He’d bet his entire academic career he also sounded like that some time in his life.
For Barty.
With his head clearing itself making its way for full consciousness to come, that’s when he really noticed it—the way Regulus’ pinky finger brushed against Barty’s as they stood side by side. Such a small gesture, barely there, but Evan had always been good at reading the spaces between things. The way Barty didn’t pull away, didn't even seem to notice, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The ache hit him unexpectedly, sharp and immediate. Not jealousy, exactly—or not just jealousy. It was more complicated than that. It was the recognition of something he’d never had, not really. Two months of stolen moments and careful distance, of never quite being able to reach for what he wanted. And here was proof that Barty had found it with someone else.
Someone who had been here while Evan was gone. Someone who hadn’t left.
“Earth to Evan,” Dorcas said, waving a hand in front of his face. “You’re spacing out again. Can you please stay with us for a second?”
“Yeah, sorry.” He forced himself to focus on her instead of the way Regulus had stepped infinitesimally closer to Barty. “Still waking up, I guess.”
“Mum saved you a plate,” Pandora said. “She made that pasta thing you used to love. The one with—”
“The cheese and garlic,” Evan finished. His mother’s version of comfort food, heavy on garlic and cheese. His stomach growled in response, reminding him that he’d barely eaten on the bus.
“Come on then,” Dorcas said, standing and stretching. “Before it gets cold. Again.”
They trooped downstairs together, a familiar parade except for Regulus, who moved through Evan’s childhood home like he belonged there. It shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did. Everything felt slightly off-kilter, like someone had rearranged furniture in a room he knew by heart.
In the kitchen, his mother fussed over reheating his dinner while the others settled around the worn wooden table. This had always been their spot during summers—homework spread across the surface, or board games that ended in arguments, or just talking until the sun went down and fireflies started blinking in the yard. Back when everything was okay and they didn’t have to worry about anything.
“So,” Dorcas said, stealing a piece of bread from the basket in the center of the table. “Tell us about the sophisticated university life. Are you very intellectual now? Do you wear scarves and discuss Nolan films?”
“I don’t wear scarves,” Evan said, rolling his eyes at how absurd it would have been, accepting the plate his mother handed him. The pasta was still warm, fragrant with basil and garlic. “And I’ve only seen two Nolan films.”
“Which ones?” Regulus asked, and something in his tone suggested genuine interest rather than polite conversation. Something Evan appreciates, as no one’s really interested in films the way he often needs them to.
“Interstellar and Oppenheimer. Classics.”
“Good choices.” Regulus leaned forward slightly. “Have you seen Beautiful Boy?”
“Groeningen? Not yet. It’s on my list, though.”
“I hope it’s a list of something decidedly not academic. You won’t feel it, I think.”
“Yup. It’s not. Why sometimes I can’t watch the films I really want to, really.”
“Well. You should. It’s…” Regulus paused, considering. “It’s about self-destruction and regret. About going home. I’ve taken unexplainable comfort with that film, to be honest.”
Their eyes met across the table, and Evan had the unsettling feeling that Regulus saw more than he was letting on. Before he could respond, Barty knocked his shoulder against Regulus’.
“Look at you two, being all film nerdy,” he said with a grin. “Reg has been working his way through the classics since he got here. Says he’s educating himself. Can’t even drop his phone doomscrolling on Letterboxd.”
“Someone has to have culture in this town,” Regulus replied dryly, but his cheek was pink where Barty’s shoulder had touched it.
The casual intimacy of it made Evan’s chest tighten again. He focused on his pasta, trying to ignore the way Barty’s attention seemed to orbit around Regulus, the way Regulus thrived like a cigarette lit for consumption.
“How long have you been here?” Evan asked Regulus, partly to change the subject and partly because he was genuinely curious.
“Two years in October.” Regulus’ expression grew more guarded. “Right after... well, after Sirius left home. Our parents weren’t happy about it.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Barty muttered.
Dorcas shot him a warning look. “Reg’s parents are—”
“Traditional,” Regulus interrupted smoothly. “Very traditional. They had specific ideas about what their sons should become. Sirius disagreed more vocally than I did.”
The careful way he spoke reminded Evan of himself—the practiced art of deflection, of making painful truths sound manageable. “But you came here anyway. That’s brave.”
“Sirius sent money for a bus ticket.” Regulus’ smile was small but genuine. “Said I could figure out the rest when I got here.”
“And did you? Figure it out?”
“I’m working on it.”
Dorcas reached across the table to squeeze Regulus’ hand. “He’s being modest. He got a job at the bookstore and his own apartment. Plus he’s the reason Barty actually reads now.”
“I read before,” Barty protested.
“Skimming motorcycle magazines doesn’t count,” Dorcas said.
“Says who?”
They fell into familiar bickering, the kind that felt like home. Like what they were doing since they were seven, like nothing had changed, like there wasn’t any strain. He’s happy. Contented. He does miss having real friends—people who don’t really care who his father is and what his surname entails. But even as Evan let the conversation wash over him, he couldn’t stop watching the small interactions between Barty and Regulus. The way Regulus’ eyes tracked to Barty when he laughed. The way Barty absently handed him the salt without being asked. The way they seemed to exist in their own small bubble of understanding.
It was beautiful, actually. And it ached in ways Evan hadn’t expected.
Because this is what Barty deserves. Something that isn’t… Evan.
“You’re quiet,” his mother observed, settling into the chair beside him with her own cup of tea.
“Just tired still,” he said. “It's good to be back.”
She studied his face with the kind of maternal scrutiny that missed nothing. “Is it?”
Before he could answer, music drifted in through the open window—guitar and drums and something that sounded like controlled chaos. It was coming from the direction of town, probably from the old community center where local bands sometimes practiced.
“The Marauders,” Dorcas explained, catching his curious look. “They practice most nights. James’ band.”
James.
The name hit him like a gush of wind, unexpected and sharp. It’s one of those names Evan had worked very hard not to think about over the past two years. Had deleted his number along with everyone else’s, had avoided social media, had built careful walls around the memory of dark hair and bright eyes and the kind of smile that felt like coming alive.
“They’re good,” Regulus said quietly. “Really good. Sirius says they could make it big if they wanted to.”
“Do they want to?” Evan asked, though he wasn’t sure why it mattered.
Barty shrugged. “James is pretty focused on the music. They all are, actually. They’re playing the summer festival.”
The music swelled slightly, carried on the evening breeze. Evan could pick out individual instruments now—the steady thrum of bass, the intricate guitar work that had to be Sirius, and underneath it all, something that might have been James’ voice.
“We should head out,” Dorcas said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Early morning tomorrow. Beach, everyone. Including you, Aunt Francesca.”
“Oh, thanks, Dorcas,” their mother smiles, that maternal instinct to make it better even if the circumstances don’t allow it. “I have a workshop tomorrow, though. With your mother.”
“Too bad, then. We’re gonna have to steal your twins tomorrow.”
Francesca laughed, “Sure. You’re heading out?”
“Yup,” Barty answers for Dorcas, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. “Regulus here is also sleepy.”
“I’m not!” Regulus scrunches his nose, offering an apologetic smile at the three Rosiers. “But we really have to go, though. Thanks for having us, Aunt Francesca.”
“Already?” Pandora pouted. “Evan just woke up.”
“Evan needs sleep,” their mother said firmly. “Real sleep, not whatever he’s been surviving on. You lot take care, yeah?””
As they gathered their things and said their goodbyes, Regulus lingered by the door. “It was nice meeting you,” he said to Evan. “Maybe we can talk about films again sometime.”
“I’d like that.”
Regulus smiled, and for a moment he looked younger, less guarded. “Good.”
After they left, Evan helped his mother clean up, the familiar rhythm of washing and drying dishes a comfort after the strangeness of the evening. Outside, the music had faded to a distant hum.
“They’re good kids,” his mother said as they finished. “All of them. Even with everything they’ve been through.”
“What do you mean?”
She was quiet for a moment, considering her words. “Regulus had a hard time when he first arrived. Barty helped him settle in. They’re good for each other.”
The simple statement landed heavier than it should have. Good for each other. Present tense. Real and settled and everything Evan had never been able to offer or accept.
“I see.”
Later, alone in his room, Evan lay awake listening to the ocean and trying not to think about the way Barty had looked at Regulus, or the way his own chest had tightened in response. Somewhere in the distance, he could still hear faint traces of music, threading through the night air like a promise or a warning.
The summer stretched ahead of him, vast and uncertain as the ocean itself. And for the first time since coming home, he wondered if some things were better left in the past.
Evan woke to the sound of seagulls screaming bloody murder outside his window and the smell of bacon drifting up from the kitchen. For a moment, he forgot where he was—the ceiling looked wrong, too low, and there was sunlight streaming through curtains he didn’t remember owning. Strange. His room is always dark, effectively because of his blackout curtains. Then memories crashed back: Solana Bay, home, Barty’s crooked smile, Regulus’ careful distance, the ache in his chest that had followed him into sleep.
His phone showed 9:54 AM, which was practically sunset by his university standards. Back at school, he’d been lucky to drag himself out of bed before noon on weekends, fueled by nothing but spite and the anxiety of yesterday’s coffee. Here, his body seemed to remember older rhythms—summer mornings that started with his mother’s voice calling up the stairs and the promise of whole days that belonged to no one but himself. A day spent with only his choices and decisions.
Salt air infiltrated his nose as he found Pandora in the kitchen, already dressed and attacking a plate of scrambled eggs and fried rice like she hadn’t eaten in days. Their mother stood at the stove, hair twisted up in the messy bun she wore when she was actually cooking instead of just reheating leftovers. Her sundress sways together with the curtains, the wind coming from a window open. The kitchen smells… homely. Fresh. Lived in.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Pandora said around a mouthful of eggs. “Only twelve hours this time. Progress.”
“Twelve hours of actual sleep,” their mother added, not turning around but somehow knowing he was there. “When’s the last time that happened?”
Evan couldn’t remember, honestly. Sleep at university had become a luxury he couldn’t afford, something he stole in twenty-minute intervals between classes and study sessions. If he’s lucky, he would be tired enough to drift off the moment he closes his eyes.
“Thanks,” he said instead, accepting the plate their mother handed him. The eggs were perfect—soft and buttery, the way she’d made them when he was little and thought his mother could fix anything.
“Dorcas called,” Pandora said, stabbing at her bacon. “She wants to know if you’re up for the beach today. Apparently it’s the first properly hot day of summer and she refuses to waste it.”
The beach. Where he’d spent every summer day for most of his life, where he’d learned to swim and caught his first fish and had his first panic attack about the vastness of the ocean and his own smallness within it. Where he’d sat with Barty on warm sand and pretended the way their shoulders touched was accidental and not at all intentional, like it’s something excusable because Dorcas always leaned her head on Pandora’s shoulders because they’re friends and there’s nothing about it but a friendly gesture.
“Sure,” he heard himself say. “Sounds good.”
His mother turned to study his face, eyes squinting, that same maternal scrutiny from last night. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, you know. If you need time to adjust—”
“I’m fine, Mum.” The lie came easily, practiced. “I do want to go.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded. “Take sunscreen. You’re pale as a ghost.”
After breakfast, Evan dug through his dresser for swim trunks, eventually finding a pair from two summers ago that still fit, barely. Everything felt strange and familiar at once—the weight of the fabric, the way his reflection looked in his childhood mirror, the ritual of packing a beach bag with towels that smelled like the summer years ago, as if nothing had changed.
Dorcas picked them up in her ancient Honda, the same car she’d been driving since she turned sixteen, now held together by duct tape and sheer determination. The radio was broken, stuck permanently on a station that played nothing but early 2000s pop, and she sang along to Avril Lavigne with the kind of commitment that suggested she’d never heard the word “irony.”
“Hello there, hotties.” Dorcas winked from the car, smirking like she owns the world.
Pandora hurries, running towards Dorcas with an excitement that stems from her own two years of missing out. “Yay! Beach!”
Evan bit his bottom lip to stifle a smile, rolling his eyes as he jogs towards them. He opens the door on the backseat, and before he could even sit, his sister turns towards him from the passenger seat and asks, “Evan, you brought the sunscreen Mum placed on the table?”
“Yup,” he says, head nodding towards his backpack.
“God, I missed this,” Dorcas said, windows down, wind whipping through the car. “Summer, I mean. Real summer, not whatever academic year nonsense you’ve been doing.”
“Film school isn’t nonsense,” Evan protested, protectively.
“I didn’t say film school was nonsense. I said ‘academic year’ was nonsense. There’s a difference.” She caught his eye in the rearview mirror. “You look better, by the way. Less like a sick Victorian child dying of flu.”
“Thanks?”
“You’re welcome.”
“Will we be picking up B and Regulus?” Pandora asks, opening the window to shove her hands outside, welcoming the burst of wind.
“Nope, they’re already there.” Dorcas replies.
Pandora hums, and then, without Evan’s surprise, she tilts her body to let her head out, her hair dancing against the wind. She’s laughing, giggling, so, so happy.
The beach was already crowded by the time they arrived—families with small children building sandcastles, teenagers playing volleyball, the usual assortment of locals and tourists that made up Solana Bay’s summer population. Evan scanned the crowd automatically, looking for familiar faces, though he wasn’t sure if he hoped to find them or avoid them entirely.
They claimed a spot near the lifeguard station, close enough to the water to hear the waves but far enough from the crowds to have some privacy. Dorcas immediately stripped down to a bikini that was more string than fabric and sprinted toward the water like she’d been personally offended by dry land.
“Show-off,” Pandora muttered, but she was smiling. “I’ll be right there,” she pointed towards a spot away from people, secluded and shaded. Evan nodded, already distracted by how much people were there. When he looked back, she was already settled onto her towel with her sketchbook, lost in whatever design was taking shape in her head.
Evan lay back on his towel and closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his face. This was nice. Peaceful. He could almost convince himself that nothing had changed, that he was still eighteen and stupid and convinced that the world revolved around his own particular brand of heartache.
Then he heard voices approaching, familiar laughter that made his stomach clench with recognition.
“—told him it was a terrible idea, but does Sirius ever listen? Of course not! Now half the marina smells like gasoline.”
“To be fair,” came another voice, softer, more careful, “he did warn everyone to stay back.”
Evan opened his eyes to find Barty and Regulus walking across the sand toward them, both dripping wet from the ocean, both looking like something out of a magazine spread about Beautiful People Having Fun. Barty’s hair was slicked back from his face, and there was a new tattoo on his ribs that Evan didn’t remember—something dark and intricate that disappeared beneath the waistband of his swim trunks. Regulus was paler, more careful in the way he moved, but there was something about the way he held himself that suggested he was comfortable in his own skin in a way he hadn’t been the night before.
“Morning, sunshine,” Barty said, dropping onto the sand beside Evan’s towel without invitation. “You look less dead today. Good for you.”
“You got a new tattoo?” He replied, without thinking.
Barty, who was about to say something, closes his mouth as he looks at Regulus, and Evan’s chest feels like a black hole with how constricting it is.
Idiot.
“Sorry, was just surprised, is all.” He takes back, looking away, staring at the surfers from afar.
“It’s new, yeah,” Barty replies, sitting up. “Last year, I think?”
“February,” Regulus supplies, sitting beside Barty in the sand, legs spread.
Evan couldn’t help but notice the hand resting on his thighs. He felt like throwing up, but that would be rude, wouldn’t it?
February. Evan’s birth month. What was he doing then, while Barty and Regulus were in a tattoo shop?
“Anyway, your surfboard is still kept in that cave we found. It’s clean. I took care of it while you were gone.” Barty says, voice careful.
“Thanks. I think.” Evan tried not to notice the way water droplets caught the light on Barty’s shoulders, tried not to remember what it felt like to trace those shoulders with careful fingers in the dark. Swallowing, he turns to address them, “Having fun?”
“Reg here is secretly a mermaid,” Barty said, nudging Regulus with his elbow. “I swear he’s been underwater for twenty minutes straight.”
“I like swimming,” Regulus said mildly, settling onto Dorcas’ towel without invitation. “It’s quiet.”
“Quiet’s good,” Evan said, and meant it. At school, quiet was a luxury he couldn’t afford. There was always noise—lectures, roommates, study groups, his father’s calls, the constant hum of anxiety that had become his default state. Here, even with the beach crowds and Dorcas shrieking from the water, there was a quality of silence underneath it all that felt like coming home.
“So,” Barty said, leaning back on his elbows in a way that made his stomach muscles do interesting things in the sunlight. “Film school. Fancy.”
There was something in his voice that Evan couldn’t quite read—not mockery, exactly, but not entirely friendly either. “It’s not that fancy. Just school.”
“Just school,” Barty repeated, or, spat. Like the word is dirty. “Right. What do you even study? How to hold a camera?”
Heat rose in Evan’s chest, the familiar defensiveness he’d learned to carry like armor. He had this conversation with his father. A fucking lot . So his response comes out as rehearsed. “Film theory, mostly. History, analysis, some production work. It’s more complicated than—”
“I’m sure it is.” Barty’s smile was sharp at the edges. “Must be nice, having the luxury to study art.”
The word ‘luxury’ landed like a slap. Evan sat up, suddenly aware of the space between them, the careful way Regulus was watching the exchange. “It’s not a luxury. It’s—”
“What? Important? You saving the earth or something, Rosie?” Barty’s laugh had an edge to it, as if intending to mold his words into an arrow, landing straight to where it might hurt the most. “Tell that to the rest of us stuck here fixing boats and serving tourists.”
“Barty.” Regulus’ voice was quiet but firm. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Ask questions?” Barty turned to look at Regulus, something complicated passing between them. “I’m just curious about the glamorous university life. Can’t a guy be curious?”
But there was hurt underneath the sarcasm, Evan realized. Hurt and something that looked suspiciously like loneliness. He thought about what his mother had said the night before—they’re good for each other—and wondered what that actually meant. What had happened in the two years he’d been gone? What had Barty needed comfort from?
“It’s not glamorous,” Evan said quietly, resigned. He doesn’t even know why he needed Barty to understand. “It’s mostly just... work. Papers and deadlines and trying not to disappoint people.”
For a bit, no one spoke. The quiet Evan needed earlier became a blanket meant to suffocate. The water is too far from him and yet he feels like his throat is burning from suffocating for so long.
“Must be exhausting,” Barty said, but some of the edge had gone out of his voice. “All that trying.”
Before Evan could respond, Dorcas came jogging back from the water, breathless and grinning and wet. “The water is perfect,” she announced, shaking droplets from her hair. “And Marlene told me there’s a party tonight at the lighthouse. Summer kickoff thing. You in?”
“Depends,” Barty said, sitting up and reaching for the water bottle beside Regulus’ towel. “Who’s playing?”
“Local bands, I think. Maybe the Marauders.”
Evan’s chest tightened at the name, that familiar combination of anticipation and dread that had followed him home from university. Barty is one thing, this is another conversation.
James Potter, with his stupid perfect smile and his stupid perfect hair and his stupid perfect way of making everyone around him feel like they were part of something important.
He felt like fourteen, again. Back when his youth is about discovering he likes rougher hands and deeper voices and being fucked from behind or vice versa.
“You should come,” Regulus said suddenly, looking directly at Evan. “The music’s good.”
“Yup,” Barty supplies. “Everyone will be together again.”
There was something wistful in his voice that made Evan wonder what ‘everyone together’ had looked like for the past two years. How many parties had there been without him? How many summer nights had he missed while he was buried in textbooks and coffee shops, trying to become the person his father wanted him to be?
“I don't know,” Evan said. “I just got back. I’m pretty tired still—”
“Oh, come on,” Dorcas interrupted. “You can sleep when you’re dead. It’s summer! Live a little.”
“Says the girl who once slept for fourteen hours straight after homecoming,” Pandora pointed out, dropping her things beside Evan, sketchbook closed, reeking of accomplishment.
“That was different. I was seventeen and stupid. Now I’m nineteen and only slightly stupid.”
“Not true,” a newer voice comments, and Dorcas groans.
Evan turns his head to find Marlene McKinnon, surfboard in her hands, blonde hair sticking on her shoulders, smirking at Dorcas. He’s not particularly friends with her, only knew her from his mother’s lips when she’s talking about gossip scoop. Apparently, Marlene stopped her second year of education degree to pursue Music, together with Lily Evans and Mary Macdonald. Probably took inspiration from James’ band’s choices, he surmises, as he knows the four of them took a gap year and never enrolled since.
“There goes my blondies,” she comments, grinning at Pandora and Evan. He nods at her, while his sister grins back, standing up for a high five.
They fell into easy banter, the kind of conversation that required no real thought or investment. Evan let it wash over him, watching the way Barty absently handed Regulus his sunglasses when the light got too bright, the way Regulus’ fingers lingered just a moment too long when he took them. Such small gestures, but they spoke of intimacy, of knowing someone well enough to anticipate their needs.
It should have hurt more than it did. Maybe he was too tired for proper heartbreak, or maybe two years had given him enough distance to see what he’d actually lost. Not Barty, exactly—he’d never really had Barty, not in any way that mattered. What he’d lost was the possibility of having him, the sweet ache of almost that had sustained him through that last summer.
Now that almost belonged to someone else.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Pandora said quietly, settling beside him on the towel. “I can practically hear the gears turning.”
“Just tired,” he lied.
“Uh-huh.” She studied his face with the same careful attention she gave her sketches.
“What?”
“I notice, you know.”
Before he could ask what she meant, music drifted across the beach—someone had brought speakers, and the opening chords of a song he didn’t recognize filled the air. It was good music, the kind that made you want to move, and several people started dancing in the sand, uninhibited and joyful in the way that only came with summer and youth and the certainty that moments like this were infinite.
“That's them,” Regulus said, nodding toward the source of the music. "Marauders. They’re doing a sound check for tonight.”
Evan followed his gaze and felt his heart stop. There, maybe fifty yards down the beach, stood four figures clustered around a small setup of equipment. Even at this distance, he could make out James Potter’s distinctive silhouette—tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair catching the sunlight as he bent over a guitar. Beside him, Sirius Black was saying something that made James throw his head back and laugh, the sound carrying across the sand and hitting Evan like a physical blow.
Two years.
It had been two years since he’d seen James Potter, and yet something in his chest recognized him immediately, like a favorite song from his teens rediscovered.
“We should go say hi,” Dorcas said, already gathering her things. “I haven’t seen Sirius in ages.”
“You saw him yesterday,” Marlene pointed out.
“That was work. This is social. Completely different.”
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Sirius Black looked up from the equipment and spotted their group. His face lit up with recognition, and he said something to the others before running across the sand toward them.
“Well, well,” Sirius said as he approached, grinning in a way that suggested he was genuinely happy to see them. He offers his hand to Evan, dragging him upward to bump their shoulders. He claps his hand on Evan’s back and says, “Look what the tide dragged in! Evan Rosier, as I live and breathe.”
Sirius mockingly bows, sending the group into laughter. From the corner of Evan’s eyes, he could see the other three walking towards them.
“What about me?” Pandora pouts, and Sirius dramatically falls on his knees.
“Is this real? Even the sweetest girl in town is here to bless me with her presence!” He says, hands held up high as if to worship his sister.
The whole group laughs as Pandora helps Sirius to stand up.
“Hi, Sirius.” Evan stood, when their eyes met again, suddenly aware of how he must look—pale and thin and probably still marked with pillow creases. “Good to see you.”
“You too, mate. Reg told me you were back.” Sirius’ eyes flicked between Evan and his brother, something passing between them that Evan couldn’t read. “How’s the big city treating you?”
“Can’t really complain.” Another lie, sure, but an easy one.
“Good, good. Listen, we’re doing a thing tonight at the lighthouse—you probably heard. You should come. The whole gang, proper reunion and all that.”
Before Evan could respond, James Potter appeared at Sirius’ shoulder, slightly out of breath from jogging across the sand. And fuck, by the gods, he looked good—tan and confident and exactly like the memory from his teenage phase of crushing on him. His hair was longer, curling at the nape of his neck in a way that suggested he’d been too busy with music to worry about haircuts. His eyes, when they found Evan’s, were the same warm brown that had haunted more dreams than Evan cared to admit.
“Evan,” James said, and his name sounded different in that voice, softer somehow. “You’re back.”
“That I am,” Evan confirmed, because what else was there to say?
They stood there for a moment, looking at each other across years of silence and all the words they’d never said. Around them, conversation continued—Sirius saying something about the sound equipment, Dorcas asking about the setlist for tonight—but Evan was only aware of James, of the way his presence seemed to fill the space between them with electricity.
“You look good,” James said finally, voice too low, like it’s more of a thought to himself than a conversation. “Different, but good.”
“Thanks. You too.”
It wasn’t enough, wasn’t even close to enough, but it was what they had. What they’d always had—careful words and careful distance and the weight of everything they weren’t saying.
What is Evan supposed to say?
Oh, hey James, just want to let you know you’re the reason I learned I swing both ways.
Hi, James! Did you know you were the only thought I had at 14?
James, are you still dating Lily?
“So,” James continued, shoving his hands in his pockets in a gesture so familiar it made Evan’s chest ache. “Tonight. You’ll be there?”
It wasn’t an invitation so much as a statement of fact, delivered with the kind of casual confidence that suggested James Potter had never been rejected for anything in his life. Which, knowing James, was probably true.
“Yeah,” Evan said, surprising himself. “I’ll be there.”
James smiled, the real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and Evan remembered suddenly why he’d spent the better part of his ninth year of school convinced that he was going to die from the force of his own feelings.
“Good,” James said. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
And then he was gone, jogging back toward the band setup, leaving Evan standing on the sand with his heart hammering against his ribs and the absolute certainty that coming home had been either the best or worst decision of his life.
“You okay?” Sirius asked quietly, and Evan realized he’d been staring after James for longer than was probably appropriate.
“Fine,” he said automatically. “Just... it’s a lot. Being back.”
Sirius nodded like he understood, and maybe he did. Maybe leaving home and coming back again left everyone feeling slightly dislocated, caught between who they used to be and who they were trying to become.
The music started again, louder this time, and James’ voice floated across the beach—rough and warm and perfect in a way that made Evan want to walk into the ocean and never come back up. Instead, he lay back down on his towel and closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him like a promise or a threat.
Evan walks up to his sister, knowing what he needs to do before the clock strikes evening. When Pandora looks at him with questioning, he nods towards the direction of their house. “I need to organize my camera.”
Pandora nods. “Okay, sure. Take my bag home? I don’t want my sketchbook to be wet.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He turns to see Barty staring, as if waiting for him. He stares back, blinking. Was he watching Evan?
“Heading out?” Barty asks, and there was a hint of curiosity in there, like he wants to know.
Evan nods. “Gonna have to clean.”
“Oh. See you tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“The lighthouse party,” Barty said, “You said you’d be there.”
Right. James’ invitation on the beach, the way his own heart had leaped at the possibility of something real and immediate and his own choice. “Yeah,” Evan said. “I’ll be there.”
“Good,” Regulus said, chiming in. “Maybe save all of us a dance.”
Later that night, he makes his way downstairs to find his sister. He knows his cards are on her wallet, as he couldn’t be trusted with his own hard-earned money. Those would only go to film strips. All of it. But now he has better things to spend on. A beer, for example.
He found their mother instead, reading a newspaper by the window.
“Mum, it’s 5 PM. Why are you not out?”
“Nah, too much socializing for today.” Francesca replies, setting her tea down. “Why are you not dressed? Pandora already went out.”
“Oh,” he replies, scratching his head, dumbfounded. He thought they were going together. Completely passed his mind she could already be reuniting with her girl friends.
“You should go get ready if you’re planning to head out later.”
Evan nodded, already thinking about what to wear, about whether James would really notice if he showed up or not. About whether it mattered.
Upstairs in his room, he’d just pulled a clean shirt from his dresser when his phone buzzed with an email notification. His father’s name appeared on the screen, and Evan’s stomach dropped before he even opened it.
He’s glad Pandora is already enjoying herself. She would have already received this email and they’ll both be miserable.
Subject: Summer Opportunities - Time Sensitive
Evan,
Per our conversation about your academic trajectory, I’ve compiled several internship opportunities that close soon. The Goldman Sachs position has particular promise; corporate communications track, excellent networking potential, real-world experience that will look impressive on graduate school applications.
I need your applications submitted by this weekend. We can’t afford to waste any more time on impractical pursuits.
Review the attached materials tonight. This is your future we’re discussing.
- Dad
Evan stared at the screen, his chest tightening. Seven attachments. Seven different paths that led away from everything he’d thought he wanted, everything he’d been working toward for two years.
He sat heavily on his bed, phone in his hands, and opened the first attachment. Goldman Sachs Corporate Communications Summer Associate. The description read like a foreign language: “synergistic marketing solutions,” “cross-platform brand integration,” “stakeholder engagement optimization.”
Just one look, he told himself. Just to see what his father was pushing.
But one became two, became three, became sitting on his bed at 8 PM reading through application requirements and trying to understand what “demonstrated leadership in high-impact environments” actually meant. The lighthouse party felt far away, theoretical, like something happening in another world where people got to choose their own Friday nights.
His phone buzzed again. A text from Dorcas: Party’s starting! Where are you?
Evan looked at the message, then at his laptop screen where he'd started researching the Goldman Sachs interviewing process. The responsible thing would be to finish reading, maybe draft an essay or two tonight while the motivation was fresh. Get ahead of the deadlines instead of scrambling at the last minute like he always did.
Another text, this time from Pandora: James keeps asking if you’re coming. You okay?
He started to type a response—on my way, be there soon, just running late—but stopped. The internship materials sprawled across his bed like evidence of his own inadequacy. If he couldn’t even commit to reading about real opportunities, how could he expect his father to keep paying for film school? How could he justify two more years of what his father clearly saw as expensive self-indulgence?
Something came up, he typed back. Tell them I’m sorry.
Pandora’s response came immediately: Evan what’s wrong?
But he’d already turned his phone face down, already opened his laptop to start outlining an application essay. The music from town drifted through his open window—guitar and drums and something that sounded like freedom—but he forced himself to focus on the screen in front of him.
“Describe a time when you demonstrated leadership in a challenging situation.”
Evan stared at the cursor blinking in the empty text box and tried to think of a single moment in his life when he’d led anything other than himself deeper into compromise. When he’d chosen what he wanted instead of what was expected. When he’d stayed instead of leaving.
He couldn’t think of any.
By midnight, he’d filled out basic information for three applications and written a terrible rough draft about “leading” a group project in his media theory class. His eyes were burning from screen glare, and the music from town had long since faded to silence. Everyone else was probably heading home from the lighthouse by now, flushed with sea air and good music and the kind of summer night that became the stories you told for years afterward.
Evan closed his laptop and lay back on his bed, still in the clothes he’d picked out for the party. Through his window, he could see a few distant lights from boats in the harbor, and he wondered if one of them belonged to someone who’d been looking for him tonight.
Someone who’d asked where he was and gotten sorry excuses instead of answers.
He fell asleep with his phone buzzing intermittently on the nightstand—texts he didn’t have the energy to read, notifications from a life he’d apparently decided he couldn’t afford to live.
Evan woke to his phone buzzing against the nightstand, insistent and angry in the pre-dawn darkness. For a moment he thought it might be a dream—the kind where your worst fears manifest as three AM phone calls—but the display showed 6:47 AM and his father’s name in stark white letters.
His stomach dropped.
Shit.
“Hello?”
“Evan.” His father’s voice cut through the morning quiet like a blade. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Sorry, I was—”
“Sleeping. Yes. While the rest of the world works.” There was a pause, the kind his father used for maximum impact. “I had an interesting conversation with Dean Morrison yesterday.”
Evan’s blood turned to lead. Dean Morrison, who oversaw the film program. Who had probably mentioned Evan’s less-than-stellar performance last semester, the papers turned in late, the classes he’d barely scraped through on fumes and desperation because he was nursing a high fever he barely survived.
“He’s concerned about your academic trajectory,” his father continued, each word precise and cutting. “Apparently your grades have been... inconsistent.”
“They’re fine,” Evan lied, pressing his palm against his forehead where a headache was already blooming. “I passed everything.”
“Passing isn’t thriving, Evan. It’s barely surviving. I refuse to have an unexceptional son.” The disappointment in his father’s voice was familiar as breathing, heavy as gravity. “I’m beginning to think this film experiment has run its course.”
The word experiment hit like a slap. Two years of sleepless nights, of fighting for every credit, of believing maybe he could build something that mattered—reduced to an experiment that had apparently failed .
“It’s not an experiment,” Evan said quietly. “It’s what I want to do.”
“What you want.” His father’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “And what exactly has wanting gotten you? Mediocre grades, no clear career prospects, and a summer of wasting time in that nowhere town instead of pursuing real opportunities.”
Evan closed his eyes, feeling the familiar weight of his father’s expectations settling on his chest like stones. Outside his window, Solana Bay was waking up—seagulls calling, waves against the shore, the ordinary magic of a summer morning. It felt a universe away from his father's voice in his ear, from the sterile apartment near campus where success was measured in grades and networking opportunities.
Oh.
Oh, fucking fuck. Fuck.
“Evan.”
Startled, “I got into the program for a reason,” Evan said, but even to his own ears it sounded weak.
“You got into the program because I pay the tuition,” his father corrected. “And if your performance doesn’t improve dramatically, I’ll be reconsidering that investment.”
The threat hung in the air between them, unspoken but crystal clear. Fall in line or lose everything. Shape up or watch two years of work disappear like smoke.
“I understand,” Evan said, because what else was there to say?
“Good. I’ve sent you information about several summer internships last night—real ones, not this creative writing nonsense. Corporate communications, marketing, practical skills you can actually use.” His father’s voice softened slightly, taking on the tone he used when he thought he was being paternal. “I’m doing this because I love you, son. Because I want you to succeed. But success requires sacrifice.”
No, Evan thought, it requires obsession.
After his father hung up, Evan lay in bed staring at the ceiling until the sun was high and bright through his windows. The internship materials had already arrived in his email last night—corporate positions in soulless offices, the kind of work that would look good on applications for business school or law school or whatever path his father deemed acceptable. Not a single one had anything to do with film, with storytelling, with any of the things that made Evan feel like himself.
He thought about last night, about James’ invitation and the way his own heart had leaped at the possibility of something, anything, that felt real and immediate and his own choice. He’d been planning to go, had even picked out clothes, had imagined what it might feel like to stand in a crowd listening to music that mattered, surrounded by people who knew him before he became this anxious, hollow version of himself.
Instead, he’d spent the evening staring at internship descriptions and trying to calculate how many of his dreams he could sacrifice before there was nothing left of him worth saving, until he didn’t even know he was drifting off.
By noon, the house felt too small, too full of his mother’s concerned glances and Pandora’s careful questions about why he looked like death. He grabbed his camera—the good one, the one his father didn’t know about—and walked to town, needing movement, needing distance from his own thoughts.
Solana Bay in daylight was postcard-perfect, all weathered storefronts and flower boxes, tourists with ice cream cones and locals who moved with the unhurried pace of people who had nowhere urgent to be. Evan found himself documenting it through his lens—the way light fell across the harbor, the laughing children on the pier, an elderly couple sharing a bench and forty years of comfortable silence.
This was what he loved about filmmaking, about visual storytelling: the way a single frame could capture something true and essential about the human experience. The way light and shadow could say what words couldn’t. It felt like prayer, like meditation, like the only honest thing he’d done in months.
Because behind his lens, everything could be anything. Anything could be everything.
He was so absorbed in his work that he almost didn’t notice the familiar voices coming from the marina until it was too late to turn away.
“—completely wasted. James kept asking where he was.”
“Did he?” The voice was careful, neutral. Regulus.
“Yeah. I told him he probably had better things to do than hang out with us locals.”
Evan looked up from his camera to find Barty and Regulus sitting on the edge of the dock, legs dangling in the water. They hadn’t noticed him yet, too caught up in their conversation, and something about their body language suggested this wasn’t a casual chat.
“That’s not fair,” Regulus said quietly.
“Isn’t it?” Barty’s voice had an edge to it, the same one from yesterday at the beach. “He shows up after two years, acts like nothing’s changed, then disappears again the moment something more interesting comes along.”
“Maybe he had a reason—”
“There’s always a reason.” Barty laughed, but there was no humor in it. “There was a reason when he left. There was a reason he never called. And there will be a reason when he leaves again at the end of summer.”
Evan’s chest tightened. He should walk away, should pretend he’d never heard this conversation, but his feet felt rooted to the pier.
“You don’t know that,” Regulus said.
“Don’t I?” Barty pulled his legs out of the water, turning to face Regulus fully. “I spent two months thinking I meant something to him. Two months of—” He stopped, shook his head. “You know he was the only thing keeping me glued to myself. But he left me. It doesn’t matter. That was a long time ago. I really don’t care anymore. I have you now, don’t I?”
“Barty—”
“He made his choice, Reg. He chose his fancy school and his important future, and I chose to stay here. And that’s fine. It is. I just wish he’d stop acting like we’re still friends.”
The words hit Evan like a physical blow. He stumbled backward, camera clutched to his chest, but it was too late—the movement caught Barty’s attention, and their eyes met across the dock.
For a moment, nobody moved. Then Barty’s expression hardened, closing off completely.
“Evan.” His voice was flat, emotionless. Doesn’t hold any weight, like he was too unimportant of intention. “Didn’t see you there.”
“I was just—” Evan gestured vaguely with his camera, but the excuse died in his throat. “I should go.”
“Yeah,” Barty said, standing and brushing sand from his shorts. “You should. You always do.”
The dismissal was so casual that devastating isn’t even the right word to describe the way it punched a hole in Evan’s chest. He watched as Barty helped Regulus to his feet, Regulus sending him a grimace and an apologetic look as they walked away without a backward glance, as two years of careful distance crystallized into something sharp and final.
Like there wasn’t a time it was the softest thing to ever hold Evan.
He stood there long after they’d disappeared, camera heavy in his hands, trying to process what he’d heard.
The casual cruelty of Barty’s words, the matter-of-fact way he’d dismissed their entire history. As if those two months had meant nothing. As if Evan had imagined the weight of Barty’s attention, the careful way they’d learned to exist in each other’s space.
I just wish he’d stop acting like we’re still friends.
But underneath the hurt was something uglier: recognition. Because Barty wasn’t wrong, was he? Evan had chosen to leave. Had chosen his father’s approval over whatever fragile thing they’d been building. Had spent two years convincing himself it was the mature decision, the practical one, the only one that made sense. Because he likes his degree. Loves it. He wants to be a professional in what he is passionate about. Wants this to work out, even if it takes fighting teeth or nails or claws just to attain it.
He’d just never considered what that choice might have cost anyone else.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze. Evan walked the streets of his hometown like a tourist, documenting a life he’d voluntarily stepped out of. He photographed the bookstore where Regulus worked, the garage where Barty fixed boats, the community center where the Marauders had played last night while he sat in his childhood bedroom staring at corporate internship listings.
By evening, he was raw and tired and looking for a fight. He found it at the corner market, where he went to buy dinner for his mother and ended up in line behind Barty, who was purchasing what appeared to be ingredients for a romantic dinner: wine, fresh pasta, the good cheese from the deli counter. He was also holding a bouquet of flowers.
“Special occasion?” Evan asked before he could stop himself.
Barty turned, surprised, then shuttered. “Something like that.”
“Let me guess. Regulus.”
“Yeah. Regulus.” Barty’s jaw was tight, defensive. “Problem?”
Everything about the interaction felt wrong—stilted and formal, like they were strangers making polite conversation instead of two people who had once known the exact shape of each other’s silences.
“No problem,” Evan said, but something in his voice must have suggested otherwise because Barty’s expression darkened.
“Good. Glad we’re clear on that.”
They paid for their purchases in tense silence, but instead of walking away, instead of letting it go, Evan followed Barty outside into the parking lot.
“So that’s it then?” he said, his voice louder than intended.
Barty scoffed, exasperated. “What now, Rosier?”
Rosier.
Evan could have punched him in the face.
“Two years and you’ve just... moved on?”
Barty stopped walking, turned to face him with eyes like flint. “Moved on from what , exactly?”
“You know what.”
“No, I actually don’t. Enlighten me.” Barty set his grocery bag on the hood of his car, crossed his arms. “Tell me what exactly I was supposed to wait around for.”
The word ‘wait’ hit like a trigger, releasing two years of suppressed frustration and guilt and the bone-deep exhaustion of trying to be someone he wasn’t.
He scoffed, followed by something that resembles a chuckle. It doesn’t sound joyous, no. When you’re terribly disappointed by something you know won’t really work out in the end so you just laugh because you are so fucking right even with how badly you wanted to be wrong? That’s the closest thing to what he’s feeling right now.
“Don’t you use that word, Barty.” Evan whispers, like a plea, the words ripping out of his chest like a physical thing. “You didn’t even wait for me.”
For a moment, Barty just stared at him. Then his face crumpled into something raw and painful before reforming into anger.
“No, Evan. You don’t get to do this.” Barty snarls, his teeth grinding against one another. And Evan knows he reached it, he poked on that bubbling anger until it had no choice but to come out and hurt back in retaliation. “You don’t get to blame me for being loved the way I deserve. You left like I wasn’t worth staying for! Remember?”
“Barty, you don’t understand—”
“I don’t understand?” Barty shot back, voice cracking on the words. “You left like what we had was nothing, like I was nothing, like two months of—" He stopped, shaking his head violently. “You don’t get to come back here and act like I’m the one who fucked this up.”
“I didn’t have a choice—”
“Everyone has choices, Evan. You chose your father’s money over—”
“Over what? Over you?” The words came out harsh, desperate. “What the fuck were we, Barty? What were we really? Because I seem to remember a lot of ‘this doesn’t mean anything’ and ‘we’re just having fun’ and ‘don't make this complicated.’”
Barty flinched like he’d been slapped. Evan wishes he actually did. “That was—”
“That was you protecting yourself. Just like you’re protecting yourself now with Regulus.”
Barty laughs, a bit maniac, eyes sharp. “Do not fucking go there. Leave my boyfriend’s name out of your mouth.”
“Why? Because he’s safe? Because he’s not going anywhere?”
“Because he’s good for me,” Barty said quietly, and the simple truth of it hit harder than any accusation could have. “Because he sees me and doesn’t run away. Because when I touch him, he doesn’t flinch like he’s committing a sin. Because he loves me , Evan. He does.”
The words landed like physical blows. Evan remembered those moments—the way his own guilt had poisoned even the sweetest interactions, the way he’d pulled back whenever things got too real, too intense. The way he’d made Barty feel like something to be ashamed of instead of something to be treasured.
Barty wasn’t done. “You have no right to demand anything from me, Rosier. You left me alone. Face it. Everything was so fucking good until you came back, don’t you know? Regulus saw me, all of me, broken into pieces, do you know what he did, huh? He picked it all up even though he was broken himself! Do you know what that does to a person?”
Evan stared, lips tight. He deserves this. He knows he deserves to hear this. How much he fucked up by leaving.
But oh, how it hurts.
Everything was so fucking good until you came back, don’t you know?
“Fuck you, Evan. Do not go fucking teary-eyed on me now. You went up here reprimanding me for moving on. Is it my fault now that you’re stuck? If you only hadn’t left me, we could have been much more, you know? But no. You cut that loose thread to follow your daddy’s money.”
“That's not—” he started, but Barty cut him off.
“It’s exactly what it was. And you know what? I get it. I do. I understand why you left, why you chose the life that made sense over... whatever the fuck we were doing.” Barty’s voice was steady now, devastatingly calm. “But you don’t get to come back and act like I’m the villain for building something real with someone who actually wants to be here. With me.”
They stared at each other across the parking lot, two years of unspoken hurt finally dragged into the light. Whatever had existed between them two years ago—that complicated tangle of want and fear and possibility—it was there, humming beneath the surface like a live wire. Evan wanted to say something, anything, that might bridge the gulf between them, but every word that came to mind felt inadequate or cruel or true in ways that would only make things worse.
“I should go,” he said. Finally. What else was there to say?
“Yeah,” Barty agreed, picking up his grocery bag. “You should. You always do.”
Barty turned his back, opening the door of his car. Before Evan could move, he was speaking again. “You should probably apologize to Sirius and James, by the way, if you could grow a spine. They were looking for you all night.”
Evan pursed his lips, hands in his pockets. Yeah, that, too.
This time, Evan didn’t watch him leave. He stood in the empty parking lot until the sun set and the streetlights flickered on, until his phone buzzed with texts from his mother asking where he was, until the weight of his own choices felt like it might crush him entirely.
When he finally made it home, he went straight to his room, ignoring Pandora’s concerned questions and his mother’s offers of dinner. He lay on his bed in the dark, staring at the ceiling where his childhood stars still glowed faintly, and tried to make sense of the wreckage of the day.
His phone buzzed with a text from his father: Did you look at those internship applications? The deadline for the Goldman Sachs position is Friday.
Evan stared at the message until the words blurred, until they became symbols without meaning. Then he turned his phone face down and closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come.
Instead, his mind kept circling back to the same set of images: Barty’s face in the parking lot, raw with two years of suppressed hurt. Regulus’ careful kindness, the way he’d tried to defend Evan even knowing what it might cost him. James’ smile on the beach, warm and hopeful and completely unaware of how thoroughly Evan had already begun to disappoint everyone around him.
And underneath it all, the weight of his father’s voice in his ear, the systematic dismantling of every choice that had ever made Evan feel like himself.
He thought about the internship applications waiting in his inbox, about the path his father had mapped out for him: corporate communications, networking events, the slow strangulation of every dream he’d ever dared to voice. He thought about film school, about the professors who’d believed in his work, about the stories he’d wanted to tell before the weight of expectations made even holding a camera feel like an act of rebellion.
He thought about summer nights when he was seventeen, sitting on the beach with salt air in his lungs and Barty’s laughter in his ear, when the future felt like a thing to be excited about instead of endured. When wanting something felt like a gift instead of a weakness.
Now wanting felt like drowning. Every desire, every hope, every small rebellion against his father’s vision for his life—all of it felt like evidence of his own fundamental inadequacy. He wanted to make films, but his grades said he wasn’t good enough. He wanted to belong somewhere, but he’d burned every bridge that might have led him home. He wanted to be the kind of person worth staying for, but the evidence suggested otherwise.
The worst part was the recognition, sharp as a knife between his ribs: he’d become exactly what Barty had accused him of being. Someone who ran when things got complicated. Someone who chose the safe path even when it felt like dying. Someone who left like the people he cared about weren’t worth the risk of staying.
He rolled over, pressed his face into his pillow, and let himself feel the full weight of what he'd lost. Not just Barty—though that hurt in ways he couldn’t name—but the version of himself that had believed he could want things without apologizing for it. The version that had looked at a camera and seen possibility instead of another way to disappoint the people who mattered most.
Outside his window, the ocean continued its endless conversation with the shore, indifferent to human heartbreak, indifferent to the small tragedies of summer boys who’d loved each other badly and left each other worse. The sound should have been comforting, but instead it felt like a reminder of how vast the world was, how small his problems were in the grand scheme of things.
How small he was.
Dawn was breaking when Evan finally fell asleep, and when he woke hours later, his phone showed nine missed calls from his father and a text from Pandora asking if he was okay. He wasn’t, but that seemed like the kind of truth that would only create more problems.
So he got up, showered, and started crafting an email to the Goldman Sachs recruiter, because that was what good sons did. That was how you survived when wanting things was a luxury you couldn’t afford.
Even if survival felt suspiciously like the slowest possible way to die.